


die just to keep them under

by hollow_dweller



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Backstory, Diarmuid is ready 2 fite but he's also baby so, Gen, Implied Violence, Pre-Canon, Protective Ciarán, Protective Mute, and i will see their platonic relationship tag populated if it's the last thing i do, ciarán and the mute are THE brotp, diarmute pre slash technically but that's really not the focus, minor descriptions of corpses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28403829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollow_dweller/pseuds/hollow_dweller
Summary: He looks around to find the Mute, staring at the sword in his hands, eyes so dark in his face they almost look black.Ciarán opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. Tries again. He hates to ask, to put this on the Mute, but--Diarmuid.“Can you help us?” he says, quiet. The Mute is looking towards the cellar now, with its barred door and trembling, terrified guards. The yelling has died down, for the moment. He looks back at Ciarán.He nods, and picks up the sword.*Or, the fight at the Hollows was not the first time the monks had borne witness to what the Mute was capable of.
Relationships: Brother Ciarán & The Mute, Brother Diarmuid & Brother Ciarán, Brother Diarmuid & The Mute
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	die just to keep them under

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was born of speculation around Ciarán's line to Geraldus in canon: "He has obeyed every task asked of him, no matter how difficult, or dangerous." there was conversation on discord around what sort of dangerous tasks the Mute might have had asked of him. i posted this there awhile back, and now i've cleaned it up to share here! apologies to the discord pals who have already seen it. set maybe a year or so after the Mute washed ashore. 
> 
> title from "Bury" by The Unions

Death comes to Kilmannán when Diarmuid is little more than a boy. 

Ciarán wakes to the sound of the hand-bell, usually used to call them to their prayers--or to call Diarmuid, gone wandering in his infinite, insatiable curiosity, back from wherever he has disappeared off to--discordant and jarring. 

Years of life at the monastery has etched knowledge of their daily routine--prayer and work and study--into Ciarán’s body. When he hears that bell, he knows that it is not that he has misestimated the time he has been asleep. 

Something is wrong. Something is coming. 

He stumbles out of his clochán, still pulling his robe over his head, the rest of his brothers flooding, disoriented and weary-eyed, into the courtyard. Rua is there, bell in hand, grim-jawed and pale-faced. 

“I spotted a scout, when I was out walking,” he says without preamble, when he sees that Ciarán and the Abbot are looking at him, waiting for an explanation. Rua has trouble sleeping, some nights, and it is not unusual to find him walking the grounds, skirting the edges of the forest that borders their land, deep in thought, path lit only by moonlight. 

There is a sweeping rush of murmurs among the brothers, but nobody interrupts. Ciarán swallows, closes his eyes briefly, and nods. 

“How long, would you guess?” he asks. 

Rua frowns. “Their man did not spot me, but if they are watching it will not be long--” 

As though on queue: a roar, in the distance. 

*

They move fast, when they need to. The monastery is not outfitted with weaponry, but everyone knows how to wield tools in rudimentary self defence. Ciarán watches as his brothers arm themselves with axes, shovels, and staves, fear boiling low in his gut. 

Then he spots Diarmuid, clumsily handling a staff that is too long for him, and the fear shoots up his throat, choking. 

He lurches forward, ready to tear the weapon from Diarmuid's hands--order him to run, to hide--but the Mute gets there first. 

He plucks the staff from Diarmuid's hands and shakes his head, holding the staff away and pressing a gentle hand to Diarmuid's shoulder when he moves to grab it back. 

Ciarán reaches them, then, and Diarmuid whirls to face him, a familiar look of stubborn righteousness on his thin face. 

"Brother, this is my home--" 

" _No,_ Diarmuid." 

"Ciarán!"

Ciarán looks at the Mute. He nods, handing the staff to Ciarán, and scoops Diarmuid up, ignoring the boy's indignant yell and carrying him over to the cellar-- a low stone building, dug deep into the ground, with heavy doors that can be barred from the inside. It is the most defensible location in the monastery. The Mute pushes Diarmuid inside with gentle but insistent hands, then steps back quickly, slamming the doors shut before Diarmuid can dart out. He takes the staff back from Ciarán and threads it through the handles, to prevent Diarmuid from running out when no-one is looking. 

The door rattles as Diarmuid pounds on it, yelling and pleading for them to let him out, to let him fight. Ciarán lays a hand on the shaking wood, sending up two prayers: one for God’s protection, the other for Diarmuid’s forgiveness. 

Several of the brothers take up stations around the cellar; the need to protect their youngest is an unspoken one, in the monastery. Raiders will find themselves with trouble on their hands, if they wish to reach him. 

Another roar, louder now, and the distinct sound of running feet. Their enemy is almost upon them. 

The Abbot comes rushing out of the main chapel. In his arms, bound in rough cloth, is the monastery’s only true weapon. An old sword, kept in good condition but never used. The Abbott passes it to Ciarán, who quickly unwraps it, moonlight glinting off the steel. Ciarán is the only one at the monastery with the training to use a weapon such as this. 

Or at least, he _has_ been. 

He looks around to find the Mute, staring at the sword in his hands, eyes so dark in his face they almost look black. 

Ciarán opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. Tries again. He hates to ask, to put this on the Mute, but--

Diarmuid. 

“Can you help us?” he says, quiet. The Mute is looking towards the cellar now, with its barred door and trembling, terrified guards. The yelling has died down, for the moment. He looks back at Ciarán. 

He nods, and picks up the sword. 

*

When it is over, the Mute stands, tall and fierce, blood on his face and the fallen bodies of their would-be raiders scattered about him. 

The brothers stand huddled together near the cellar, silently watching. Barely a one of them had needed to raise so much as a hand--the Mute was that fast. 

Ciarán takes a deep breath, and approaches him. 

The Mute does not move when Ciarán gently takes the sword from his unresisting hands, passing it off to Rua to be carried away and cleaned. Around them the other monks have begun to stir from their stupor, beginning the process of dragging the raiders’ bodies away. They will have to decide how to dispose of them later, but for now the wind off the sea will carry their stench away from the monastery, and they will be out of sight. For the time being, it is as good as any of them can hope for. 

Ciarán leads the Mute over to the well, drawing up some water in a bucket, guiding the Mute's hands to dip into it, rinsing the blood from them. Cathal approaches with a length of linen in hand. Ciarán takes it with a nod of thanks, soaking the fabric and then bringing it to the Mute’s blank face, cleaning the splatter of their attackers’ blood from cheek and brow. 

The whole time, the Mute barely shifts, barely twitches, the only movement in his face the blinking of his eyes as Ciarán pours water over his head to rinse the last of the sweat and blood from his hair. 

Ciarán opens his mouth--to say what, he does not know--but is interrupted by an outraged cry and the running of feet. Someone has released Diarmuid from the cellar. 

He launches himself at the Mute, first, throwing his arms around the man’s neck, seemingly unbothered by the water. He presses his forehead in the center of the Mute’s chest, trembling as the Mute slowly brings his arms up to cradle him close. After a moment, he pulls away, and thumps a fist against the Mute’s shoulder while he scrubs his other hand across his face, wiping away the tears there. 

“I am furious at you,” he says. Then: “I am so glad you are okay.” 

The Mute does not smile at him, but something in his face softens, and the knot of worry for his friend that has taken up residence in Ciarán’s chest loosens. 

Diarmuid turns to grab Ciarán into a hug, then, burying his face in Ciarán’s chest. 

“I am angry at you, too,” he says, voice small. 

Ciarán smiles, and tucks Diarmuid’s head under his chin. “Of course you are, stóirín.” 

Diarmuid makes a wordless noise of indignation--either at the tone or the endearment, perhaps both--then sniffles, quietly. “What happened?” 

Ciarán looks over Diarmuid’s curls to meet the Mute’s eyes. Slowly, he shakes his head, lips thinning as he presses them together. 

Ciarán lets out a silent sigh, but--he understands. “God saved us,” he says instead, and presses a kiss to Diarmuid’s temple. 

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked it! as ever, i'd love to hear from you in the comments if you're so inclined. regardless, thanks for reading!
> 
> come hang on [tumblr](https://hollow-dweller.tumblr.com/); i like friends


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